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The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and supporting American poets. For over three generations, the Academy has connected millions of people to great poetry through programs such as National Poetry Month, the largest literary celebration in the world; Poets.org, the Academy’s popular website; American Poets, a biannual literary journal; and an annual series of poetry readings and special events. Since its founding, the Academy has awarded more money to poets than any other organization.

Timothy Donnelly

Born in 1969 in Providence, Rhode Island, Timothy Donnelly holds a BA from Johns Hopkins University, and an MFA from Columbia University.

Donnelly is the author of two collections of poetry, The Cloud Corporation (Wave Books, 2011) and Twenty-seven Props for a Production of Eine Lebenszeit (Grove Press, 2003). His work has also been translated into German and appears in the poetry anthologies Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century, Joyful Noise: An Anthology of American Spiritual Poetry, and Poet, Poems and Poetry, edited by Helen Vendler.

Donnelly's work has been widely praised. Jorie Graham has remarked that his poetry is "musically brilliant and articulate," and Richard Howard found Donnelly's first collection, "as vigorous, as fresh, and as authoritative" as the work of John Ashbery.

He is the recipient of numerous awards and fellowships, including those from The Paris Review, Columbia University, and the New York State Writers Institute.

Donnelly is the current poetry editor at the Boston Review. He is also a professor in the Writing Program at Columbia University's School of the Arts. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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Timothy Donnelly: The Internet's Impact on Writing

by this poet

That fire at the mouth of the flare stack rising
more than three-hundred feet above the refinery
contorts as it feeds on the invisible current
of methane produced by the oil's distillation
process like a monster, the nonstop spasm of it
lumbering upwards into the dark Newark
night like a sack